by Alex Gray
‘Kill Kennedy?’
‘That’s what I think. There’s something odd about the man. Something that doesn’t feel right …’ He tailed off, eyes looking beyond his wife to a place only he could see.
Maggie Lorimer, knowing that look of old, slipped away quietly. She’d make some coffee, have it outside in the garden. He’d come and join her eventually, but right now her husband was back at work even while he sat at his own table, oblivious to everything around him.
CHAPTER 35
Rosie dreamed that she was in a white room. Everything was white: walls, floor, furniture, even her clothes were made from some thin white stuff. She could feel the fabric cool under her fingers, the garment floating loose around her naked body.
But she was not alone in this room. There was a tall man dressed in a pale uniform who seemed to be waiting for her by an open door. He stood very still and Rosie thought to herself that he had a military sort of bearing; this seemed to be confirmed by the peaked hat tucked beneath the crook of his elbow and the clipboard full of papers he was consulting. She felt herself move towards him, curious to know what the papers contained. They were to do with what was to become of her, she knew that instinctively without having to be told.
‘You’ll go through there,’ he said, pointing to the doorway. Rosie looked up, prepared to smile, but his face was so grave that she looked beyond his outstretched hand to see where the door might lead. She didn’t want to leave this familiar whiteness behind but the man’s face told her that she had no option, so she moved through the doorway, shivering as she entered into a shadowy corridor. Blank walls on either side curved overhead to form an arch all the way along, so it was more like a tunnel than a corridor. The darkness did not intensify, rather the quality of twilight remained the same even when the white room was left far behind. On and on she walked until all sense of time had vanished. She never stopped travelling forwards, only hesitating sometimes to rub her eyes and blink in the dim light. Rosie felt no fear, only a growing curiosity as to where the tunnel would lead and what she might find at the other end. At last the stifling greyness gave way as pale light shone against a curve on the wall and she stepped out into a brightness so intense and dazzling that she had to close her eyes tightly and cover them with her hands.
A sudden babble of voices filled her ears, so loud that Rosie wanted to scream. The sound of her own voice came to her then, a high, thin sound like an infant’s mewling, and she felt helpless against the hands that lifted her up and away from the ground. For a moment she felt safe – these hands were strong – though they held her body in a vice-like grip. I’m just tired, she told herself. My body is weak, that’s all. But then the dream took on nightmarish proportions as everything happened at once. A hand pushed her down, hard, and her body was forced into a small cage. Rosie felt sharp edges graze her arms and something cold strike her bare feet. The snap as a lid was shut above her echoed all around, mingling with screams and curses. Before she knew what was happening, the world tilted sideways and then her whole body jarred as the cage came to earth with a thud. She tried to speak, but no sound came from her lips. Her neck was twisted into an awkward angle and then she felt her head thump against the side of the cage as if it were being pulled over rough ground.
The motion stopped and Rosie opened her eyes to see stars wheeling above her in a night sky; not twinkling sparks of diamond light but blood-red like carrion waiting for the ripeness of her flesh.
‘She’s here,’ a voice said and Rosie tried moving her head to see who had spoken.
Then Solly was there by her side, his face wet with tears. Rosie wanted to reach out her hand, to touch him. But at that very moment the pain intensified, filling her body, and she felt herself being lifted away into the blackness even as she tried to say his name.
CHAPTER 36
Solly was sitting outside Rosie’s room, head bowed into his arms, when Lorimer came around the corner of the hospital corridor. The tall policeman paused, uncertain. Had the worst really happened?
He sat down next to the psychologist and placed an arm around his shoulders. For a while they said nothing then Solly looked up, his face blotched with recent weeping. Lorimer swallowed hard, not trusting himself to ask the question, fearful of its response.
Then Solly shook his head and gave a shuddering sigh. ‘They think she’s going to be all right. There were a few bad hours early on this morning, when they thought her lungs were filling up, but she’s over that now. Sleeping peacefully.’ Dr Solomon Brightman lifted his haggard face and the policeman saw fresh tears coursing down his cheeks. But they were tears of relief and in one swift movement Lorimer had him in his arms, holding him as he sobbed like a child.
A decent meal and a couple of glasses of milk had worked wonders for him, thought Lorimer, looking at his friend across the table. When had he last eaten? Days spent moving between Rosie’s room and the coffee machine had taken their toll on the psychologist. His usually benign face had lost its rounded contours, the cheekbones showing sharply beneath the pallid flesh.
‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ Lorimer began.
‘No! I couldn’t possibly leave now.’
Lorimer made a face. ‘Think you could do with a shower and a fresh change of clothes, pal. Surely you don’t want Rosie to wake up seeing you like this?’
As Solly looked down at his sweat-soaked T-shirt, Lorimer hid a smile. The psychologist was the least vain man he knew, totally unaware of his appearance, but his expression of amazement at his unkempt state was almost comical.
Leaving the hospital canteen, they strolled out into the morning sunshine towards the car park.
Solly lifted his face to the warmth of the sun and spread out his hands. ‘What a beautiful day,’ he said simply.
*
‘Any chance you might want to come into the station later on? We could do with your help,’ Lorimer suggested lightly as the Lexus drew up outside the West End flat.
Solomon Brightman looked serious for a moment. ‘I’ve let you down, haven’t I?’
‘No. There was no way on God’s earth you could have done anything else.’ Lorimer grinned. ‘We’ve just had to manage without you for a bit. Besides, it would’ve been a hassle to get anyone else of your calibre during the holiday period.’
‘Can you give me an outline of what’s been happening since …’ Solly broke off, unable to refer to Rosie’s accident.
‘Funny you should ask.’ Lorimer pulled a file from the back seat of the Lexus. ‘See what you make of that and we’ll see you around five-thirty. Okay?’
Solly raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘You were quite sure I’d come back to the case, then?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lorimer smiled.
The first things she saw when she opened her eyes were the yellow roses. There were masses of them crammed into cut-glass and crystal vases, the refracted sunbeams filling the room with shards of rainbow-coloured light. Rosie blinked to see if this was another dream or if she was indeed awake. A slight breeze came from her side and Rosie glanced at the fan whirring around on her bedside cabinet. That, more than anything, told her she was in a hospital bed. Gradually she became aware of the tubes taped to the back of her wrist and the drip that was positioned slightly behind the bank of pillows so that she caught only a glimpse of chrome. There was no pain so she must be receiving a fair quantity of morphine, Rosie thought. For a time she took in her position dispassionately as only a trained doctor can do. Of the accident she remembered nothing at all, but there could be no doubt that something frightful had happened to make her land in hospital. Trying to recall the events met with a blank and she feebly raised her eyebrows in a gesture of capitulation. Someone would tell her about it. Closing her eyes again, Rosie felt a peace that was borne of the simple knowledge of being alive.
‘She’s okay!’ Lorimer shouted down the phone. ‘Rosie’s going to be okay!’
Maggie sank down on to the floor by the telephone, her throat constricted by
an overwhelming need to weep.
‘Can you hear me, Maggie? She’s going to be fine.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered back. ‘I hear you. Oh, thank God!’
Replacing the handset, Maggie Lorimer leaned back against the wall and shivered. The days spent waiting for these words had been so long, so drawn out, that she felt totally spent of all emotion. As if from nowhere, a warm ginger head ducked under her hand, demanding a caress, and she buried her face into Chancer’s soft fur, her heart suddenly gladdened by his insistent purr. But in that moment it occurred to her that her pact with God might really come about and that she might have to relinquish the comfort of this little creature.
‘I love you, little one,’ she told the cat, ‘but Solly loves her more.’
That afternoon’s meeting in divisional headquarters had a light-heartedness about it that belied the discussion of a triple murder case: the news about Dr Rosie Fergusson had spread around. Even Lorimer couldn’t keep a grin off his face as he reintroduced Dr Brightman to their team. A spontaneous round of applause broke out that made the psychologist blush to the roots of his beard.
‘I’m so sorry to have abandoned you all,’ he began but his words were drowned out by exclamations of support from various members of the team who knew and respected the forensic pathologist.
‘I did have the beginnings of a profile before Rosie’s car crash,’ he told them, ‘and in the light of subsequent events I think I can give some indication of the man we are looking for.’
The atmosphere changed abruptly at his words and all eyes turned to see the psychologist’s solemn face regarding them.
‘The murders of Mr White and Mr Cartwright have several similarities and show that an organised mind is behind them. These killings were not random. We are not, I suggest, looking for someone who acts on impulse but for a man who is quite in control of his own mind and who has an agenda.’
‘So you think Pat Kennedy could be a target?’ DI Grant piped up.
‘Indeed I do. There seems to be just a little too much focus on Mr Kennedy for this to be all bluff. From the bogus email and the website threat, to the painted words daubed on the wall of Kelvin’s boot room, it seems to me as if our man is taking more risks as he becomes secure in the knowledge that he has already got away with a double murder.’ Solly paused to look around the room, wishing to see the effect of his words. As his glance fell on the SIO he could see that Lorimer had one hand upon his chin, considering what had been said. That was something of a relief. His insistence that the same person had taken the lives of White and Cartwright was not being disputed. Of Nicko Faulkner’s murder he made no mention; a deliberate omission to emphasise his point.
‘So,’ Jo Grant came back again, ‘you think it’s someone inside the club?’
‘Indubitably, DI Grant,’ Solly replied, inclining his head towards her. ‘Which should make your lives a lot easier,’ he added with a sudden grin.
Lorimer watched his friend scurrying towards the taxi that would take him back to Rosie’s bedside, then turned away from the window. Things looked brighter now, especially as the team had done some serious work trawling the local internet cafes in and around Glasgow. Cafe Source, a twenty-four-hour establishment in Glasgow’s West End, had been located as the most likely origin of both the website threat and the bogus email to Tam Baillie. But it was unlikely that any of its staff would be able to identify one out of their numerous casual customers. If he had a suspect then they could at least show a photograph. Lorimer clenched his jaw. Pat Kennedy had come to the top of his list more than once, though what his motivation would be for killing these two men was something that gave him pause. It was just the man’s manner, the belligerent, bullying arrogance that seemed to suggest he was capable if not of murder then of having it arranged. An organised mind, Solly had said to them. But did the organised mind belong to the person who had pulled these triggers or to someone who was organised enough to have a professional hit man?
Lorimer considered the reports lying on his desk, the results of today’s actions. They’d begun to look at the football club’s financial background. Was there something in this pile that might help to heave the case out of this slough of despond? Lorimer flicked through the papers until he found what he wanted. Yes. Here it was. Not just a list of the club’s directors, who included a well-known Glasgow solicitor and a property developer, but the major shareholders as well. He sat back and held the page out at arm’s length, emitting a low whistle. So, Barbara Kennedy was one of the directors and held the club’s controlling interest. He cast his mind back to the red-haired woman at Kelvin Park. His policeman’s nose told him that there was some amorous entanglement going on behind Mrs Kennedy’s back. Kennedy was a fool to risk his wife’s ire if she really held the club’s purse strings. But maybe taking risks was part of the attraction. He remembered the scrawny woman behind that glass-fronted office. She wasn’t exactly a beauty. But perhaps she had other attributes.
A knock on his door ended that particular train of thought and he saw that DC John Weir, the latest addition to the team, stood uncertainly on the threshold.
‘Sir?’ His eyebrows were raised in supplication.
‘Come in, Weir, what is it?’
Encouraged, the DC entered the room and handed a file to Lorimer. ‘I didn’t manage to finish it in time, sir. Had to wait for the bank to get back to me with details.’
Lorimer noticed a tinge of pink flushing the young man’s cheeks. He was certainly excited about something.
‘It’s the report into Norman Cartwright’s financial affairs, sir. That’s it all there,’ Weir added unnecessarily.
Lorimer skimmed through the report, turning over the yellow Post-It notes that were obviously the Detective Constable’s preferred way of highlighting something of significance.
‘Hm!’ Lorimer’s eyes widened as he came upon the reason why Weir had emphasised one particular yellow sticker with a double asterisk and an arrow. There, in a long line of figures, was a sum of money far exceeding any other deposit in the late Norman Cartwright’s bank account. ‘Any idea where the money came from?’ Lorimer asked.
‘No, sir, but I found out that it was paid in cash.’
‘Twenty thousand pounds in cash?’
‘We think it might be a win on the horses, sir. He had an account with Ladbrokes.’
Weir came alongside Lorimer. ‘If you look back a couple of pages – there.’ He pointed to another highlighted figure.
‘That’s exactly—’
‘—the sum he was overdrawn, six weeks previous to his death,’ Weir finished dramatically.
Lorimer scowled at him. Finishing a senior officer’s sentences wasn’t good form and Weir had better learn that fast. Still, the new recruit to CID seemed to have turned up a few interesting facts about the referee.
‘And he managed to find enough cash to balance his account just days before his murder.’
‘What if …?’ Weir began then stopped, unsure if he had already allowed his enthusiasm to run away with him.
‘Let’s hear it,’ Lorimer told him, though his own mind had already leapt to a somewhat unsavoury conclusion.
Weir sat down in the vacant chair opposite his DCI. ‘Well, what if he’d been bribed to throw the match?’
‘By Queen of the South?’ Lorimer laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No, by someone who’s been trying to bring down the club. D’you not remember how they finished at the end of last season? Baz Thomson just gave away that penalty,’ Weir protested with a vehemence that betokened the true football supporter.
Lorimer nodded. It had been a strange end to a season full of surprises, not least Kelvin’s relegation. Gretna’s meteoric rise into the Scottish Premier League had only been eclipsed by Saint Mirren winning the Scottish Cup in extra time after a battle against Inverness Caledonian Thistle. That the Old Firm of Rangers and Celtic had suddenly lost their stranglehold on Scottish football was a favourite topic a
mong sports pundits; Kelvin’s demise from top-level Scottish football was a nine-day wonder in comparison.
‘D’you think Thomson could have thrown the game, sir?’ Weir asked, meeting Lorimer’s gaze.
‘Well, that’s something we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?’ Lorimer replied drily. ‘Why don’t you follow this one up yourself? Bring him in for questioning.’
Weir’s eyes lit up. ‘Me?’ he asked, an expression of astonished delight on his face.
‘Aye, you, Detective Constable Weir,’ Lorimer answered, trying hard not to smile.
The young man was obviously eager to show his promotion out of uniform had been justified and there was something about this new recruit that reminded Lorimer of himself at that age. ‘Just remember all those interview techniques they taught you at Tulliallan.’
CHAPTER 37
‘That’s him!’
The police patrol car changed lanes swiftly and turned left into the housing estate, following the progress of a young man dressed in a shabby track-suit.
Turning his head, Donnie Douglas saw the two officers staring at him from the car; one had his arm out of the open window and was signalling at him to come over to them. For a moment Donnie hesitated. His instinct was to make a run for it through the maze of council houses and try to lose the police car. But something stopped him. He was tired of running. Tired of fearing the consequences of his actions. And somehow, these two faces looking up at him from the car were less intimidating than he had expected, in fact the one beckoning him over was smiling in an encouraging way. With a sigh, Donnie turned around and headed towards the car.
‘Want a lift back to Glasgow?’ the smiling one asked.
‘Aye, why not,’ Donnie replied and with a shrug meant to convey his indifference, he heaved his knapsack into the back seat and slung himself in beside it.
